Toxic Time
by beachLEMON
Summary: When he's so addicted and he's got all the time in the world to dwell on what's said and done while she's sitting in the same room. And she wants it. And he wants it more than anything. But neither make a move.


Toxic Time

___

The bar was fairly crowded, but it was like this on most days. Same guy with the beer belly and missing front teeth was there in the corner talking to his buddies again about his cheating wife. Still can't figure out why she'd do that to him. I'm thinking of helping him solve the mystery one day as he belches in my face.

This really isn't my scene. But it's become my scene and that's good enough. I down another one of whatever-they're-called's. Weird drink names in this place; I vowed to never try the Paper Crate Peppermint. Something about that just didn't sit well with me.

This whole place doesn't sit well with me and this doesn't suprirse me. Back in the good, old days, I wouldn't be caught dead here, drowning my sorrows in a drink or just savoring the way it burned the insides of my stomach. Sometimes the drinks weren't pitiful at all; sometimes they were about a good time. Like two nights ago, that blonde really knew what she doing. And it all starts with a few drinks. Other nights, of course, it's all about what I promise to forget every morning. Hard to lie to oneself so early in the day, but I force myself to. It makes my life seem more worthy if I set an impossible goal.

No, you and I both know why I show up here every other day. I'd come more often, but damn it, I've got some shred of a life left. I try to ask myself why I do this if you've already taken everything else. My dreams—I don't dream anymore. It's just torture held closer to me than it should be anymore. My happiness. You took that with you like insurance and it really hasn't failed you yet, has it? But I still come and you know why. The only thing ever holding me back is work—and we both know that's because Dumbledore would skin me if I didn't show up. He knows about this—my bar attendance. Gives his fatherly advice once in a while, but often times he has this look on his face as if he's thinking, 'I'm talking to a bloody wall.' 

I guess he is. Because I still come here. And it's always with a bitter smile. I never pass out, you know that. And you know why, too. I always stay to see the main event of the evening. Something that feels like my heart getting beat down with a hammer. The grande finale. 

When you walk in with him.

_I saw you there__  
__Your long brown hair__  
__Falling on your face the way it used to fall on mine__  
__At one time__  
__A long time ago__  
__I still remember everything you said to me that night_

See? You know why I come here. You have my eye on me from across the room like I do on you. We look like retired old security guards, ready to serve our posts at any given moments just because we're too old and stupid to move on. I know I am; too old and stupid to move on, I mean. That's my reason. What the fuck is yours? I hate to say it, but we're the same in so many ways. I used to love saying that. My girlfriend and I are like this—show two fingers wrapped together and smile like an idiot. Now we're more like this—if my fingers were on opposite sides of the globe. And you're only sitting right there—on his lap.

And you're still watching me. Again, I ask myself, why? It's bad enough that you know I come here just because of you. And because of him. I suppose I owe these semi-daily sightings to your...boyfriend. He's the big bar fan, isn't he? Of course; he must be. I see you every given day that I'm here; you only take a few sips of whatever he orders. Even if I didn't see you, I'd know it wasn't your idea. I guess you're getting used to the sting down your throat now, because every once in a while you'll order a small shot of something or other. You never used to. Remember? Not even when you were in your cute, rebellious stage. Back you first got a taste of the horrendous and utterly horrific Draco Malfoy. You loved it. You know it. But you never drank. I convinced you once, but after you tilted your head back—probably faster than a beginner should have—you scrunched up your nose and stuck out your tongue ask if you were airing it out while squeezing your eyes shut. Damn, you were adorable.

Surprised I remember? I wonder if you do. I remember every one of our memories together. They meant something to me; God, you're all that's ever meant anything to me. And I hate myself for it. Think about it, Draco—_the _Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune, fame, and power has never felt anything for anyone besides Hermione Granger, someone not even worthy of his gaze. Not that any of that shit matters to me. Still pretty pathetic that I've never cared for anyone, anything, like I did for you. You'd think I'd have something else—someone else.

Wait, you _did_ think that. Remember? That night. Oh..._that_ night. I know you remember. I'll forever remember it. If I suddenly got permanent amnesia from hitting my head on a bloody piano, I know _that_ would still not escape my hollow memories. I know I'd remember how your eyes were different that day; kind of paranoid, shifting this way and that way, as though expecting me to catch on to something that only you held captive. Fool that I was, I didn't catch on. You had _nothing_ to worry about. I had full faith in you. My mistake.

_It's too bad and it's too late  
You were such a big mistake  
Please don't call here anymore  
I used to miss you_

You had made up your mind by dinnertime. We were having lamb. I guess that's what I got for trying to cook adolescent animals. You broke what's been on your mind in a mouthful, afraid of my response, I suppose. Said you were having second thoughts. I didn't know _why_. No offense intended, but I hadn't proposed to you or anything. We were only nineteen. Both had our lives. The second thoughts were still there, though. And even more so, you used that word when describing our relationship. The word that haunts me whenever I think of your decision. The word that I think of when I think of you. The word that makes me think without it, I'd be happy. I'd be powerful, strong, have any woman I wanted. 

The relationship was a such a _mistake_, eh? And now you're happier? If I had known what I know now, I could've convinced you that I'm bloody wonderful for you; that you wouldn't find better. Or at least snort in you face and _challenge_ you to find better. Sitting there on his lap, watching him down alcohol and smile flirtatiously at the waitresses that pass him, doesn't make you happy. You and I both know that. And that's why you look at me. Seek me out; hope that because I'm here...kind of with you, it'll be better.

It's not, is it? I figured it out the first time I saw you walk in here and followed you in like a stray pup off the street. Oh, these similes that I never thought would be used in connection myself. And you're the cause of it. Do you feel any guilt? Any guilt for what you do to me? I only _hope_ I do the same to you.

I followed you in, thinking I could talk to you, work this out somehow, prove to you how much you mean to me. Notice I said _mean_ and not _meant._ But then I saw you walk briskly with determination and knowledge across the bar, clearly indicating you knew where you were going; not browsing. And you settled next to him and began to talk. Then you laughed, genuinely laughed at what he said, and I had to sit down—at the other end of the bar, of course—and order as many drinks as possible before the employees began looking at me strangely and offering this sullen stranger practiced words of comfort and caution. That's when I figured out that being in the same place as you only makes it worse. It warms my heart to see your soft face, glinting hair, and supple body. It also freezes my blood to see your soft face, glinting hair, and supple body. I am only pondering now whether my everlasting love has been chopped into sporadic pieces of coarse, hard rope over this long period of time which can now be called hatred. Do I hate you? Do you know, Hermione? Can you help me? Do _you_ hate _me_?

That night you said you didn't. You said that you _should_ in theory, but you didn't. I blame our whole break-up on the 'in theory' part, and I know you do as well. But for you, that was supposed to be a good thing; you were supposed to be doing the _right_ thing and giving up your dirty secrets to be what you always thought you'd be. In retrospect, I see now that you don't deal well with change. You'll never be able to escape it, though. You didn't know that before and my mind wasn't in the position to seek out this random truth and show you its insides, but it's true. Even on your 'right track' in life, you've still got _him_. That cheating _him_ who checks out other girls and you try not to notice, try to ignore that your guy wants someone else as well as you. The selfish _him_ who has the temper of a serial killer—one that can even rival my own—and the attention span of a fruit fly. 

That's all something you've never experienced; never _had_ to experience. What you _had_ to do was what got rid of me for you.

In theory—there's the principle of your reasoning behind what you were saying that night—you weren't supposed to care for me, get involved with me, sneak around. Although Weasley's sister knew and apparently approved, that wasn't enough for you. You were scared what Weasley and Potter would say if they found out about us and you broke it off before it could even happen. That, surprisingly, gave me a boost of confidence because I realized that you weren't some long-lost soul clinging to some savior in her life as a last resort. If you had the strenght to stop something this good before it got out of hand, then you must've been thinking with your right, logical, know-it-all mind. You were yourself when you decided to get involved with me and become and _us_.

You were also in your right mind when you ended it. Because I was a _mistake._ We were a mistake. It was all for nothing and I wasn't good for anything in your life. You had to be where you were wanted and needed and apparently I was strong enough to carry on without you. You were acting like we were a team of astronauts on a mission to the moon. You were backing out last minute but it was okay because I had enough knowledge and experience to carry on without you.

Fuck you.

I don't remember if I said that. If I did, it could've only made things worse. I _did_ say I remembered that night vividly, but only what you said. Probably because I didn't say much myself. I was numb—in shock and damn it, for good reason. 

You said all this—all this 'I _have_ to because we're not _supposed_ to be together' shit—as if you were informing me of my slightly above-par phone bill. As though you were genuinely sorry to inform me of it, but really, it wasn't life-threatening.

Thinking of that careless tone you used, that 'it'll be better this way anyhow' tone, my original thought comes to mind when I first reminisced about that scene with a clear, sober mind:

Fuck you.

  
_There's no surfin Colorado anyway  
And it's a shame to hear you're happy and you still look at me that way  
There's no surfin Colorado anyway, yeah  
She never waved to me or said "good bye"  
One night she just left me and her behind_

But that hardly means anything in my heart anymore. I could never hate you. Though, you never know; a heartbroken man like myself can use this time to figure out loopholes to this trick of sorrow and unbearable grief. There may be a way to ultimately hate you and want to Avada you while still love you with all my aching heart. I'm looking into it.

While I'm looking at you and while you return my glances. If I can chance to say it, yours look more needy than my own—and that must just look pathetic. I know how longingly I look at you and you look back at me even more longingly so. We must look like separated lovers from opposite sides of town, torn apart by society and broken to shreds.

Ironic, isn't it? We look it, but it's damn untrue. We weren't torn apart by society. We were torn apart by you.

I look away and think of this alternative. I still have a life. If I block out three-fourths of my current existence—the attendance of this bar—I still had my Potions job. Teaching Potions, I mean. Remember how hard I worked to get that job after Snape _finally_ got his Defense Against Dark Arts position he wanted so badly? And remember how we both laughed about his now increasingly menacing appearance because of his aged face and added bitterness because of it. You remember.

Well, I got the job. Dumbledore was probably going to give it to me all along anyway. I figured that out when I looked into his twinkling eyes. That was right after I asked him _why_ his eyes were constantly twinkling. That was just unnatural.

I had some competition, I knew, because there were even some American, Russian and Austrailian scholars applying for the job. But I worked my ass off for that position. I knew that the Malfoy name and status meant shit to Dumbledore and I wouldn't have had it any other way. I worked days and nights, often studying all there was about anything Snape had ever talked about. You always reassured me that my teaching degree wasn't a piece of cake to get; that I must've learned _something_ useful if I was able to withstand all the studying required and pass with flying colors. I tried to believe you but worked my ass off anyway. You'd said, "Trust me." That was probably the _one_ thing it wouldn't have hurt to trust you in. But that alone. 

Pansy's kid—I know, I was shocked, too—tells me his whole House adores me. He's in Ravenclaw. I find that oddly unsettling as I would rather have Slytherin worshipping me, but that's not their—_our­—_style. And, yes, Pansy nearly lost her mind when her son was sorted into Ravenclaw, but I think that at this point in her life she needed that adjustment. She's twenty-four now; not in Hogwarts and Houses should be but a memory for her now.

I keep in touch with her now. Some others as well. Zabini's well-known in the Wizarding World. Near the 'Most Wanted' list, I'm aware, but not quite there yet. Shit, I'm proud of him. I know you're not, but I guess that doesn't matter now. I can have any friends I want now. This whole righteous act was gradually making a come-back from the rebellious, I remember now that I think about it. It was one thing when you used the excuse that you wanted nothing to do with Voldemort or his associates back then when that excuse was plausible. Then, Zabini started his business and again you spoke up with your restrictions for our well-being. That's one thing I will never miss about you. And one thing I'll never have to endure any longer.

You left. Kind of walked away from the silence. Oh, right, and you'd already packed. That night, after you _gracefully_ broke my fucking heart and dreams, you quietly walked to the door and pulled your suitcase along with you. It was waiting out in the hallway. Another idiot move of mine: not noticing an irregular placement of luggage in my own apartment. But I didn't notice and you were gone without ever looking back.

And that's fine. I never needed you anyway. I was _fine_ before. I never needed you anyway.

_There she goes  
And no one knows  
What she does to my heart, still, she'll never know  
How we speak  
Across the room  
Eye to eye she's holding him, holding me soon_

_It's too bad and it's too late  
Was it such a big mistake?  
You don't call me anymore  
And I still miss you_

So I lie. Nothing I've ever had before will ever compare to what you gave me, what we both made for ourselves; the happiest years of my life. So far. But I try to move on. I guess coming back to this bar isn't the best way to get over you and your hold over me, but you're guilty of the same thing. You saw me here the first I ever followed you in. If you were truly happy and never wanted to see my disgraceful face again at risk of reminding you of your _unfulfilling_ past, you would've asked _him_ to go to a different bar. Plenty of them in London.

But you and I are the same in this way, too, you see. Change does us no good. Only your rash actions upon the belief that what you once thought you'd do is how it's _meant to be_ makes us different. I'd never stand by what is expected of me; I guess you see that now. You saw how my friends shunned me when I refused to follow in my father's footsteps and his bordering-on-illegal pride-and-joy business. Again I thank Zabini for stepping in and doing something I was too blind and incoherent at the time to do. Blinded by the wounds you caused me. You should've killed me. Or at least those were my thoughts at the time.

But I made through it without ending up homeless, friendless, and a drunk. I see the irony, don't worry. I haven't lost my mind completely with you here. My bar experience has only reached a dangerous point that first night. I passed out because, let's face it, I've never been one to have more than one or two drinks. I don't hold down more than five drinks properly. I'd say I...exceeded that range that night.

But not anymore. I sip my drink calmly as you stare at me longingly, your eyes big and black with a slight hint of brown around them, the dark only strengthening their effect on me. Or it was supposed to strengthen their effect on me. 

Every other night, I'd see you sitting either next to him or on his lap, always turned in my direction and within five minutes of arrival, _he'd_ start talking to the bartender about something completely irrelevant to you or check out girls. And we'd begin our staring contest. And neither of us were ever surprised that _he_ never noticed what was going on between us. And _he never_ noticed.

Your slumped posture, big black sorrowful eyes and empty expression would only fuel my heartache _for_ you and _because_ of you. I'd always wait until you left together and I'd always leave after. No matter how much you hurt me, I always felt obligated to let you have your share of me, to never leave you alone when you so obviously craved my gaze while you were at the bar. And that knowledge should've left me smug and gloating, knowing that you _need_ me even after what you did, but it only left me willing to cooperate with you silence yet deafening request.

And that obligation always hung in the air; even tonight. And I'd always wait to leave _after_ you no matter how much I hated watching you with _him_, giving _him_ the occasional kiss or lick on the neck when _he'd_ say something to you. When _he'd_ finally notice. That you were there.

I slip from the bar stool, stretch my arms overhead, flexing my muscles, and gather my jacket on my right arm, earning a surprised quirk of an eyebrow from the bartender who was calmly wiping freshly-washed shot glasses. I offer him a small smirk and retract it as soon as I met your eyes.

They held an emotion in them that I haven't seen after all these years; envy. Yes, and you can't deny it. What I saw in your eyes was something I'd asked myself so many times before that I'd lost count before the first week was over—'How can you move on without me?' 

How?

I push open the bar door, pause, then step outside to meet the crisp night air. Without looking back. And turn left, down the street, glaring at the bright headlights of moving cars and the dim streetlights glow on random rooftops. And go.

Remember the first time  
God Damn we got so high  
She held me so close that I thought that I might break  
And know she's a mile high  
And I'm on Texas time  
She traded rattlesnakes for bunny runs in Colorado Springs

My hand is on the doorknob again and I curse myself mercilessly. I want to kill myself because I'm such a pathetic idiot. I want to punish myself for what I'm thinking of doing and for what I've already done. I'd taken a step I never thought I would, I'd walked out. Without looking back. What am I waiting for? I should be on my way to a dark alley where I can apparate to my flat and get ready for work tomorrow.

What am I waiting for?

Goddamn it, _what_ am I doing this for? 

Shutting my eyes tightly and tilting my head back to get the sensation of a faint dizziness I pause for the briefest moment and decide what I am going to do; although I knew that I was going to do this all along. 

And I open the bar door and walk back in. And I deposit my jacket on the empty stool beside me and order up a drink and look your way. And your eyes light up for the briefest moment then turn back to their monotonous gaze and I return it. 

And think about you. About change. About Zabini. About the Malfoy name. About the meaning of life at all.

And close my fingers around the chilled drink I'd ordered.

___

Author's Note:

Yes! I really like this one. Thank you to _Bowling for Soup_ whom are letting me borrow the lyrics for their song "Surf Colorado" unknowingly. Thanks, guys, you rock. And I beg of all of you beyond awesome people who are going to review, _don't_ review _just_ to tell me that Colorado is not in London, England, or even the entire UK. Thank you. That's a _huge_ revelation. _Whoa._ Let's imagine for a second that the song had some actual meaning that correlated with the story. 

And speaking of that, this story is funny because I originally based it on the BFS song but got carried away into a land of where the story only _slighty_ correlates with the song now. Ah, well.

Muchas gracias for lending your literate ability and reading. Now lend your other and write a review.


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